Growing up in the desert taught me to look for beauty and wisdom in not-so-obvious people and places. These are my reflections as I try to live into that lesson in my family, in my church, in my politics and in the world.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Here is another of the columns I wrote about my daughter when I worked for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Her birthday is Friday. This was published on August 23, 1985.

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In the Walt Disney movie Sleeping
Beauty, baby Princess Aurora is visited by her fairy godmothers, each of
whom gives her a gift.

They give wonderful
things, such as the gift of beauty, and song. I always loved that scene,
because

I thought it was the dream of all parents - to know what wonderful gifts
your child possessed. Even when the scene was interrupted by the wicked
Maleficent, I still felt that Aurora's parents had the better of it.

Maleficent, in a fit of rage, cursed the child so she would
prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die. However, one of
the good little godmothers hadn't given Aurora her gift yet and so was able to
mitigate the curse. Aurora still would prick her finger, but she wouldn't die.
She would simply sleep until awakened by true love's kiss.

But as bad as that still was, at least Aurora’s parents had
some idea of what to expect.

What parents wouldn't like even a small clue as to what
gifts were embodied in their child and what the future holds for her or him?

Unlike Aurora's parents, we can only wait to see what gifts
will emerge in our children. We have to await patiently the unveiling of the marvelous
secrets they hold within.

Twenty years ago today, a nurse handed me a tiny bundle
whose eyes and fists were so tightly shut I was convinced they never would
open. No sooner had the door shut behind her, though, than those fists unclenched
and one tiny hand closed around my little finger. At the same time, those eyes
opened and I found myself looking into the bluest blue eyes I had seen up to then,
or since.

She and I looked at each other for a long time. I don't know
what she saw, but I saw the most magnificent blending of her father and me that
could be imagined. Somehow, the best of both of us had gone into her making and
out of two such different people had come this unique individual.

Some of the gifts became visible early on. Even as a small
child, she could draw well. She understood color and line and space early, and
it shows in her artwork, in her room and in her clothes.

She has a stubborn streak that is serving her better all the
time as she figures out how to manage it. She has an uncanny instinct about people,
and I've learned to pay attention to her first impressions. She loves animals,
music, family gatherings when her uncles start telling jokes, and fast cars.

She has a generous spirit, and no meanness exists in her
soul. She is gentle and can tell a joke well. She is loyal and will brook no
slight to those she loves. She is a good letter-writer and loves to read.

She already knows how to forgive and is learning patience.

I'm not saying Maleficent left her alone. She doesn't leave
anyone alone. She moves about, playing tricks on us all, dealing out a short
temper here, giving out selfishness there, and robbing most of us of the
ability to see our gifts.

This last is Maleficent’s favorite trick, I suspect. All
people, with the exception of a lucky few, have to fight through lack of belief
in themselves before they can become comfortable in the world. Some never make
it and go through life convinced they are impostors, undeserving of the success
they've achieved.

If I had three wishes to give our children, t would give
them the ability to believe in themselves, to see the gifts they already
possess and to be open to those gifts that haven’t fully revealed themselves to
them yet.

But when the babies arrive, there aren't any fairy
godmothers, and there aren't any instructions. We parents have to simply do the
best we can with what we have at the time.

So it happens that when parents think of their children, our
minds form that eternal parental question: How goes it with the child?

As I consider my child on the 20th anniversary of
her birth, I realize that there is never going to be an answer to that question
for me.

The only answer that matters has to come from her, for her.

The hard truth is, no parent can provide the kiss, the answer
that will awaken the child's sleeping self.

Parents can only provide an atmosphere in which the kiss can
happen that brings the child into full awareness of her or his or her capabilities.

But there are some gifts wecan give them. One is keeping quiet so they will have a chance to
hear that answer when it comes.

And the other is to let them know they are loved, that they
do not sleep unguarded.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Here is another of the columns I wrote about my daughter when I worked for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. This was published September 12, 1985.

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I spent this last
weekend protecting my possessions from invaders from the east.

My daughter was
home from college for the weekend. As she was preparing to leave, I discovered among
the things she was planning to take back to school:

A 5-foot
shelf that had been holding some of my books in the library.

The
extension cord I keep permanently on the vacuum cleaner so I can vacuum the entire
house without changing outlets.

My
wonderful white cuddly terry cloth bathrobe.

The brand
new can of spray starch.

A large
carpet scrap that had been hanging in the garage against the day we needed it
to patch the carpet in the house.

A large
red plastic storage container into which I had tossed packages of photographs I
planned to organize someday before I'm 80.

The
lotion in the large bottle I keep by my bed. (The bottle was still there - the
lotion had been poured into her bottle.)

As I discovered
these things, her invariable response was, “Well, you never use it
anyway."

Apparently, if it
was not on my body or in my hand at the particular moment she decided it would
look good in her dorm room or on her body, it was fair game.

As we began
negotiating over what was to be put back and what she could take, I realized
this child is missing her calling. She should be in our State Department,
heading up our negotiating teams. We would not only have the Soviet Union
totally disarmed within days, we might end up owning it - or at least a good portion
of it would be in her dorm room.

As I was telling
some friends about this raid on my household, I discovered mine is an
experience common to most parents of college-age children who live away from home.

One woman told
how it happened to her. Seems the father of a friend of her son had pulled a
horse trailer equipped with hanging rods into their driveway. Her son proceeded
to empty the entire contents of his closet into the trailer. (Two chairs also
disappeared from his room.)

When his mother
asked why he was taking everything to school instead of splitting it into warm
weather clothes and cold weather clothes, he patiently explained that taking it
all was easier than deciding.

I told some other
friends of this phenomenon, whereupon one told of how she knew her oldest son
had really left home for good. He borrowed a friend's van and began to load it
with things from her house.

His two younger
brothers watched the operation in silence (she wasn't at home). To this day,
the two younger brothers refer to it as The Rape of Fort Worth.

Another woman I
talked with on the phone later that same day told me her daughter left for
college on the East Coast three weeks ago. So far, she is missing two chairs,
one small bookcase, three saucepans, four blouses and a pair of slacks.

"At least
that's all I've discovered so far," she said. "I haven’t been up in
the attic yet.”

She said she
should have been prepared. When her son left the year before, he not only took
almost everything in his room plus four lawn chairs, he also tried to sneak the
family dog into his car.

She was really
pleased when her son came home so often for weekends (He’s going to school in
Texas). Then she discovered his frequent visits home were because he missed the
dog.

"He said, 'Well,
gee, Mom, I can always talk to you on the phone,” she said. "It keeps things
in perspective for you. I'm not sure I like the perspective, but what are you
going to do?

“One good thing
is that he'll never get homesick. He has most of home in his room.

"When they
come home for Thanksgiving this year, I may have to conduct body searches
before I let them out of the house to go back to school," she said.

Since I know dorm
rooms at my daughter's school are about the size they were when I was in
college, I can’t imagine where she is putting all this stuff. All I can think
of is the scene in Walt Disney's The
Sword in the Stone when Merlin packs the entire contents of his house into
one small carpet bag. He does this by magic, of course, being Merlin. As some
spritely music plays, everything in the house - pots and pans, beds, chairs,
cabinets, chests - marches into the bag, each item getting littler and littler
until it all fits. This is the only possible explanation - magic.

Still, I’m amazed
she was able to get it all in one small car. It was a feat of packing that
would be envied by professionals. There was not one wasted square inch in that car.
She even moved the vase with a dozen red roses that her boyfriend sent her for
her birthday.

Now she
has-announced she's coming home next weekend, too. I would be flattered at all
these visits home except that I know why she's coming.

Monday, August 19, 2013

My daughter's birthday is Friday. The other day when I was looking for something else, I came across some columns I wrote about her when I worked for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Here is one published August 22, 1983.

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My daughter turns 18 tomorrow. We plan to
celebrate by registering her to vote, then going out to lunch and generally
making a fuss over her.

Eighteen. How did that happen? I remember
the nurse putting that serene baby in my arms and my astonishment at her teensy
perfect fingernails and tiny ears. She opened the most piercing blue eyes and
looked right at me.

"Hi baby. I'm your mommy."

She went through college with me, learning
to color in university libraries while I studied, playing with blocks while I
typed papers. Only a couple times did she issue ultimatums. Once, during the
week before finals, she raised herself up to her full 2-year-old height and pushed
all my books off the kitchen table.

"No more books! Me!" she said.

I got the message. We went to the zoo and
played for the rest of the day. The Houston Zoo was free, and we didn't have
much money. We became fast friends with Oscar the Otter and learned to love the
lions.

When I graduated and we moved to Fort Worth
she was not yet 4. When I went to work at the Star-Telegram, l had to find a
way to care for her. At Southcliff Baptist Church's day-care center we found Mrs.
Travis, who made me feel my daughter was in good hands.

At the end of the first day, after worriedly
rushing out to the church, I walked in and she asked, "Are you here already?"
I decided we would both survive this. She stayed there until she was 11.

To those women at the church, I once again
say thank you. The woman my child is, you helped to shape with your loving
care.

The woman my child is...

Well, she's independent. She's smart, but
she has no patience with things that bore her. She does not suffer fools gladly.

She has a temper worthy of her flaming
hair. When she was little, and got angry with me, she would go into her room
and close the door. Pretty soon, little pieces of paper would come sliding out.

She is sentimental, and a true patsy for
animals. She has a genius for line and color, and dresses with flair. She has a
very organized mind and a sense of order, although looking at her room would
cause one to doubt this.

She has a deep rooted sense of fairness. She
still is youthfully unforgiving of people who don't live up to her standards,
but her standards are worth aiming for.

She doesn't yet perceive the world in
shades of gray. With her, issues are
delineated in black and white. It's interesting to listen to her think things
through, though, for she often helps me see something I've missed.

Once she has a sure sense of what she
wants, she doesn’t give up until she gets it. With things that are important to
her, she doesn’t leave anything to chance. She plans and campaigns and lobbies
with all the effectiveness of a Washington veteran.

She's taller than I am, and looks like her
father, though sometimes I see parts of me echoed in her. Sometimes she likes
thinking we are alike. Other times she wants distance and differences between
us.

The years between 13 and 15 were not easy
as she struggled to become her own person. There were days when I wondered if
either one of us would live through that time.

She and I have been through some dark and
scary times together and I'm not ashamed to admit there were days (and nights)
when she propped me up and send back out into the fray.

On the days I come home depressed, she’s
good at reassuring me that the world is worth the effort. When I’m grumpy, she
has a good sense of when to leave me alone and when to jostle me out of the
moodiness.

She still likes a hug now and then and is
not averse to having me baby her from time to time, but then, she occasionally
babies me too these days.

She can detect insincerity at 50 paces. She
has been proven right in her impressions of people so often that I've learned
to listen to her.

She drives me crazy with her messiness and
her total inability to hang clothes up. She makes me want to strangle her with
her whining some times. She irritates me when she tries to manipulate me with
emotionalism and drama.

On the whole, however, l think August. 23, 1965,
at St. Joseph's Hospital in Houston was a day worth celebrating. That serene
baby has grown into a vital, assertive, interesting woman.

Happy birthday, baby.

Do I love you? More than anything in the
whole world!

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And I still do, sweetheart. And I have a lot of fun watching your oldest child act EXACTLY like you, especially the lobbying and the drama. Just sayin'.

Sunday, August 18, 2013

My daughter's birthday is Friday. The other day when I was looking for something else, I came across some columns I wrote about her when I worked for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Here is one published December 11, 1983.

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The little heart
that said "I love you" started it all.

How can one
resist a soft, huggable doll that tells you constantly and faithfully that she
loves you?

That first
Raggedy Ann was given to her before she was born. It sat in a corner of her
crib, smiling and waiting patiently for her arrival. After she came home from
the hospital, it waited some more for her to get old enough to notice.

Raggedy suffered
all the pats and pulls and teething tugs of the growing, exploring baby with
undimmed eyes and complete softness.

When the baby was
old enough to pull up, Raggedy was dragged along. She learned to walk holding Raggedy,
and the doll's soft body even cushioned a tumble or two.

"Raggedy"
was hard to say when she was learning to talk, and it came out
"Neenie." And Neenie she stayed, long after talking was a perfected -
and much used - skill.

Neenie was always
around. She took her everywhere with her, dragging her along by the arm or leg,
tossing her over a shoulder, putting her on a chair beside her at dinner, tucking
her in beside her at night.

The soft round
face got dirty with sticky kisses, and was even once stained with blood when
she cut her forehead in a bad fall and I had to drive her to the doctor. She
held onto Neenie and didn't cry. She was braver than I. But then, I didn't have
a Neenie to hold.

Several times I
had to sew Neenie's arm or a leg back on, and mend tears in her skirt.

New Raggedys appeared
on the scene occasionally, usually at Christmas or birthdays, and they were
much loved, too.

But Neenie was special,
even when her yarn hair began to fall out, an eye came off, her nose wore through,
and one foot tore completely off. (It was sewn back on, held in place with a
plaid fabric that gave Neenie quite a jaunty air.)

The new Raggedys
would be taken places, and would be included in games. One Raggedy was very
big, almost the size of an red-haired 8-year-old. Her father carried it around in the
trunk of his car for weeks before Christmas because there wasn't any other place
big enough to hide it.

On Christmas
morning, she discovered it under the tree and came running to tell me about the
wonderful Raggedy that was just her size. This Raggedy sat on the window seat,
smiling down at the gerbils in their cage, and occasionally cradling her head
when she read a book.

Another was a
handmade Raggedy bought at the Senior Citizens

Fair. It had a
blue dress with lace on the hem, and brown hair, so it wasn't a
"real" Raggedy. But it had that tiny heart.

We even had a
Raggedy Andy, a sprightly little fellow who got pulled around on the back of a bike,
and who rode on our border collie’s back in game after game.

We had Raggedy
Ann and Andy books, and she had some Raggedy Ann and Andy bookends to hold them
in place on her shelves. The Raggedys went on vacations with us, and even
grandparents and uncles treated them with respect.

But Neenie was
always the one. All the others were placed lovingly on the window seat at
night. Neenie slept in the bed.

Neenie was the
one wept upon during those horrible, deeply suffered tragedies of preteen
years. When she was misunderstood, unfairly punished, or just generally mistreated
by her obviously uncaring parents, she would shut herself in her room and tell
Neenie how awful we were.

Neenie listened,
and loved, and smiled.

Her smile was
getting a bit crooked because some of the threads were pulling loose. But it just
added character to her sweet face.

Neenie soaked up
the tears of family changes, and cushioned her head when she flopped on the bed
after that first date, ready to tell about her evening.

Neenie's other
foot came off after being carried by her leg one too many times, causing instant
remorse and hugs.

It got sewn back
on with a patch of red fabric, which, with her plaid patch on the other foot, made
her quite a snazzy lady,

The snazzy lady
Neenie loved and lived with was growing up, and the room was changing around
her. Dolls got packed away and posters went up. Toys were gone, and records
appeared.

A stereo dominates the room. Pillows are
heaped on the bed, and pictures of a special boy are everywhere.

Cats have joined
the family and taken over some of the pillows. Stylish clothes hang in the
closet (and in heaps on the floor. Sigh). Earrings and bracelets and necklaces
and belts fill up spaces on the chest and the bookcases. Senior prom souvenirs
and homecoming mums hang on the walls along with a treasured Outward Bound
banner and certificate.

So much has
changed. So much remains the same.

When that special
boy makes her cry, Neenie still soaks up the tears.

When she's angry or
upset, Neenie still gets hugged. When she's lying on the bed, reading, one hand
almost unconsciously pats Neenie from time to time.

Neenie still
reigns on the bed, smiling.

And the little
heart still says, in slightly faded red, '”I Love You."

About Me

Katie Sherrod is an independent writer, producer and commentator in Fort Worth, Texas.
She is the editor of and a contributor to "Grace & Gumption, Stories of Fort Worth Women", published by the TCU Press; and "Women of the Passion, a Journey to the Cross". Both are available at Amazon.com. She has been given many awards for her consistent advocacy of women's reproductive freedom and for her 25 years of writing about efforts to combat family violence. Her print media and broadcast awards include Best Newspaper Column, Best Radio Commentary and Best Interview/Talk Show from the Dallas Press Club, and the Exceptional Media Merit Award from the National Women's Political Caucus. She holds the Associated Press Managing Editors Award for feature writing, and the Texas Headliners Award for investigative reporting.
She was inducted into the Texas Women's Hall of Fame in 1987 for outstanding contributions in the field of communications, named one of Fort Worth's Outstanding Women in 1988 and Texas Woman of the Year in 1989.
She is married to the Rev. Gayland Pool. She has a daughter and two amazing grandsons.